


I can't quite remember ; Just what guided me this way

by Splat_Dragon



Series: Silent Savior [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Animal Abuse, Animal Neglect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-01-13 15:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18471547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splat_Dragon/pseuds/Splat_Dragon
Summary: There has to be a reason I'm here.A person doesn't just get brought into the world of their favorite video game for no reason, after all. Especially when they're brought to the very beginning, before things start to go wrong.I'm not sure what I can do, if I can fix things, but you can bet I'm going to try.





	1. Prologue, Part 1

Oh, my head was _killing_ me.

 

 _‘Where… where am I?’_ I groaned, shaking my head. It was so hot, there was no way I was in my bedroom anymore. But how? Last I remembered, I was stretched out in bed, doing… doing something. Reading, wasn’t it? Yeah, I was reading. What the book was, I couldn’t say, but I was definitely reading.

 

The sun was beating down on me, and I wheezed. I had never been this hot before, and I’d grown up in Texas. It was a dryer heat than I had ever felt before--as though I were laying in the desert, wearing a thick coat. Was… was I dreaming?

 

If I was, this was the realest damned dream I’d ever had.

 

I could hear vultures calling overhead, and ravens responding. Horses whickering not far away, hooves thundering along the ground. Sand pressed against my stomach--was I naked? Fuck, was I naked? I forced my eyes open, having to squint as a harsh light made my head throb worse than before. “Shiiiit,” I couldn’t help but to groan, closing my eyes.

 

And then, I tried again.

 

And there was no damn way this was a dream, because I had never been this imaginative. Brown grass stretched out before me, no breeze that could move it to be felt. There were rocks scattered around, dry looking brush sticking out along with cacti and dying trees. Jesus, this place was a brush fire waiting to happen, wasn’t it?

 

Bison (bison‽) sizzled off in the distance, and there was a small herd of… some sort of deer grazing only a few yards from me. They were pronghorns, I think, although I wasn’t sure. Looked like them, although I’d only ever seen them in video games. But one of them had the funny curved horns and… why was that important? I dunno, but I guess when you go to sleep in your bed, and wake up in the desert, you focus on weird things.

 

Dry grass crunched nearby, and I blinked, frowning. Shit, I hadn’t realized it was possible for your eyes to feel dry, but they did. Licking my lips--why did that feel so weird?--I turned my head, shaking it again and regretting it instantly as my head throbbed. Looking up, there was a man there that looked like utter shit. Greasy hair that was matted around his hair, a pockmarked face, and a sweat-stained, ratty wife-beater. But at the moment, he was the most beautiful person I had ever seen.

 

“‘Scuse me,” I rasped out, looking up at him, “can… can you tell me where I am?” I attempted to push myself up, arms awkward and stiff beneath me, but when I tried to straighten up my body buckled, and I collapsed to the ground. And it felt… it felt weird, not like falling when you lose your balance, but like my body just refused to get up.

 

The man smirked, revealing only a few chipped, yellow teeth, “Well, what have we here?” His hand shot out, faster than I could react, and grabbed me by the back of my shirt. Well, I thought it was my shirt, until he brought his hand up and it hurt, as though he had me by my hair. I yelped, the sound tearing from my throat before I could stop it, and it sounded incredibly weird to my ears. Like… like a dog, but that was impossible, wasn’t it? I thrashed, weakly, in his grip, attempting to turn over onto my back so I could face him, but it was impossible with the grip he had, and I turned my head to face him. It shouldn’t have been so easy, considering my neck wasn’t exactly built for that, but somehow I found myself looking right in his ugly face, smelling the alcohol and nicotine on his breath.

 

“Ain’t you scary lookin’?” he said contemplatively, reaching up with his free hand to scratch his scraggly beard. And I couldn’t help but to furrow my brow at that--scary? I’ve been called many things, but I ain’t ever been called scary. Short girls aren’t exactly scary, after all. “Got you some sharp teeth, I bet.”

 

_‘What?’_

 

He reached towards me, and I dug in my feet, attempting to pull away, but the back of his hand struck my temple, and I whined again, going limp. My head throbbed even worse, the ache settling in behind my eyes, and my jaw opened easily as he pressed his thumb against my lips. His eyes scanned my mouth, and he must have been happy with what he saw, as an ugly smile broke his face. “What… what do you want with me?” I slurred, and surely I must have thought it instead, stunned from the blow, as my mouth didn’t move.

 

But he didn’t respond, and so I was even more sure I must have thought it, instead adjusting his grip on the back of my neck and beginning to haul me along the ground. I whined again, the sound wholly involuntary, and dug in my feet, but another blow to my head and I blissfully faded into oblivion.

 


	2. Prologue, Part 2

The next time I woke up, people were talking.

 

My eyes remained shut, head throbbing so painfully I worried I might puke. It was a distinct possibility, saliva pooling in my mouth. I licked my lips, trying to fight down the urge, having a feeling that man, if he was nearby (he was, I recognized his voice), would not take kindly to me puking all over… wherever we were.

 

Not being a fool, I just listened, didn’t open my eyes.

 

“She’s real scary lookin’, ain’t she?” the man who had kidnapped me said.

 

Someone chuckled, and I got the distinct feeling he was shaking his head. “Nah, not really. She’s real big, though.”

 

A reedy voice joined in, “should be ‘nuff to scare people off.”

 

She? Were they talking about me? Surely they weren’t, I’m not scary at all. Haven’t ever been, and I’m not that big, either--at least, not big enough to be commented on.

 

“She’ll warn us if anyone gets close, at least.” the first man said.

 

“Yeah, looks like she’ll be pretty loud. If anythin’, her barkin’ should be ‘nuff to scare ‘em off.” the reedy-sounding man had a rather distinct sneer to his voice, and it took me a minute to register what he had said.

 

 _‘Barking‽ What the hell are they on about?’_ Were they… were they mocking me? Calling me a bitch without actually saying it? But that didn’t sound right, they sounded like the people who would come right out and say it.

 

“Here, tie her up near the road. Don’t want her shittin’ on our doorstep.” all three laughed, and a growl rumbled in my throat. I fought to open my eyes, but they felt like they were made of lead, and I could only open them a slit. Before me, staring me down, were three men. The man who had grabbed me, in the sweat-soaked wife-beater. A tall man I pegged to be the source of the reedy voice, with a matted beard and a red shirt, and a short, scruffy stocky guy who looked like his nose had been broken a few too many times. 

 

The stocky man grabbed the lasso that sat on his hip, stepping towards me. Without my say-so, my lips peeled back from my teeth, and a snarl that sent chills down my own spine tore from my throat. I had never made such a noise before, or done such a thing, and it took me off guard. Where had that come from? How had I done it? He sneered, boot flicking out and slamming into my face. Stars danced in my eyes, and I yelped, gasping “What’s  _ wrong  _ with you‽” but they just laughed, and again I was grabbed by the back of my neck, and hauled along the ground.

 

Despite my thrashing, and when that didn’t work, my best attempts at being a total dead weight, he managed to get me to a place not far from the fence. I hunched up as he reached for me, rolling his eyes and drawling “Yeah yeah, I’m  _ real  _ scared.” as he unrolled the lasso. One end was wrapped around the tree, and as he was working to do so I attempted to get to my feet. But the world spun around me in various shades of tan and blue, and I hit the ground with a thud and an  _ ‘oof _ ’, and decided to stay there. Yes, it was definitely my decision. I could get up whenever I wanted to.

 

He grunted as he tugged on the rope, cinching it tightly with a two half-hitch tie. Well, the guy may be many things, but he knew his knots, I’d give him that. And then he was approaching me with the other end, and that snarl tore from my throat again. I attempted to jerk away from his reaching hand, but the world spun around me, and my head throbbed, and so there was little I could do as he wrapped the rope around my throat, tying a slip knot.

 

He tugged on the rope, and I wheezed as it tightened on my throat. The man, who I decided to call ‘Bulldog’, because he was built like one and kind of had the squished in face of one, seemed happy with the tie, and so slid his fingers between my neck and the rope to loosen it so I could breathe. I knew enough of this tie not to tug on it, because I wasn’t dumb enough to think that he would loosen it if I tugged and tightened it on my own.

 

Bulldog walked away, and I groaned, flopping to the ground on my stomach, which was the most comfortable way I could find to lay down. Oh, god, I was so thirsty. My mouth was ridiculously dry, and it wouldn’t surprise me to find a scorpion making its home in there, planting cacti that would take root in the cracked Sahara that was my tongue. Oh god, please no, I hate scorpions. Bad mind, bad mind, focus on something else.

 

Something gleamed in the corner of my eye, and I could have cried when I realized that there was a puddle. My head was still foggy, black dots dancing in my vision, and as I started to drag myself forward they took over my sight so much I couldn’t see. I had to rely on touch, and stopped myself when something wet touched my hand.

 

“Oh, thank  _ god _ ,” I gasped, and lurched forward, spreading my arms and lowering my head to drink. Something caught my eye through the small bit of vision that I had, and I stopped dead, blinking rapidly.

 

There was a goddamned  _ dog _ staring back at me.


	3. Prologue, Part 3

Why… was a dog looking back at me from the puddle?

 

_ I _ should have been looking back at me from the puddle.

 

I blinked.

 

The dog blinked.

 

I licked my lips.

 

The dog licked its lips.

 

_ ‘Fuck, no.’ _

 

This… this wasn’t  _ possible. _ No, no way.

 

But… then again, it wasn’t possible to go to sleep in an air-conditioned bedroom, in a plush, comfortable bed, and wake up sprawled out on the desert ground. Hell, no. Hell,  _ no _ . I stared blankly at the dog. The dog stared blankly back at me.

 

And… and it had my eyes. I’d never seen dogs with such green eyes before, they were bright green, a dark color. Sure, I’d seen dogs with green eyes before. But they’d been pale, faded in color, nothing like mine.  _ ‘Shit. _ ’ That… there was no denying it.

 

I tilted my head. 

 

The dog tilted its head.

 

I retched, and would have vomited, but there was nothing in my stomach, and thankfully I didn’t spoil the small source of water I had.

 

The dog retched.

 

_ ‘Oh, god.’ _

 

I began to shiver, staring at the dog that stared back _. ‘This… this is my life now, isn’t it? A dog in the desert, chained to a tree.’ _ and then, somewhat hysterically,  _ ‘is it really considered being chained if it’s with a rope?’ _ The… the whining, the snarling. Baring my teeth, the men saying I was big and scary. It all made sense, now.

 

I stared at the dog, taking it in. Part German Shepherd, definitely, at least from the coloration. A long, solid black, blunt muzzle. The puddle was small, so I could only see my head, but it was largely brown, with black peppering. A streak ran down the middle of my face, stopping between my eyes. My rightmost ear, solid black, stood upright, with a blunt tip. The left was dark as well, more brown than black, though, and flopped over. 

 

For some reason, I stopped feeling shocked. A dull feeling of acceptance rushed over me, and a low whine spilled from my throat. I licked my lips (the dog licked its lips), remembering how thirsty I was, and lowering my head to drink. It was surprising how naturally it came to me to lap out my tongue, pulling the water into my mouth, instead of touching my lips to the water and guzzling it down. But that… that made sense. That was how I hadn’t noticed until now, wasn’t it? It had all felt so natural, I hadn’t noticed that something was wrong. Laying like I had, being pulled around on my stomach, twisting to look around. My body was built to do so, and so it had felt wholly natural. Why would I question it if it didn’t feel wrong?

 

The dog vanished as the water rippled, and there were only a few mouthfuls worth in the puddle, and then it was gone. My thirst was only barely sated, and I could only pray that they would bring me more water. Surely, they would? They wanted me to be a guard dog, didn’t they, and I couldn’t be a guard dog if I was dead.

  
  


It’s so hot.

 

I didn’t even have the energy to moan, to whine and plead for some water. The sun beat down on me, and I felt as though I were baking. My tongue lolled from my mouth, every breath rattling in my chest, and I couldn’t remember the last time I had swallowed. There wasn’t enough saliva in my mouth to swallow down, anyways. I blinked, slowly, waves of heat rising off the ground.

 

I’d never known it was possible for it to be this hot.

 

How many days had it been since I’d woken up here? Woken up in this living hell? I’d only had a few scraps of food--it could barely be called that, just crumbs of hardtack that had made my mouth even dryer, if it were possible. They’d only spared me a few sips from their canteens, flung in my face and left for me to lick off. Most of it had dried rapidly on my scorching fur, leaving me only a few drops to wet my tongue with.

 

The heat made me tired--there was nothing else for me to do, anyways, and so I closed my eyes again, and slept.

  
  


Horse hooves thundered towards me, and I forced my eyes open. They only open a crack, and really it didn’t matter. Was probably just one of the three men returning from wherever they go during the day, sometimes the night. But… that didn’t look like them. Was too lanky to be Bulldog, too broad-shouldered to be Rat, too tall to be Sniffles. Who the hell was he?

 

They wanted me to bark if a stranger approached.

 

Really, I didn’t care. Why would I? If he was a friend of theirs, it didn’t matter to me. If he was there to harm them, all the better. Besides, I didn’t even think I  _ could _ bark, my throat was too dry. The idiots didn’t seem to realize that dogs need water to be able to bark. At that point, I was a bit curious, though, so I attempted to bark, only managing a pitiful wheezing sound, like a stepped-on squeaky toy.

 

Well. That was embarrassing.

 

I closed my eyes again, listening as the man dismounted, boots thudding on the ground. Sniffles called out to him, and they began to talk, words running together. At some point, Rat and Bulldog joined in, too, tones growing aggressive, and out of curiosity, I opened my eyes. Bulldog was holding some sort of gun, I thought at least, it was hard to tell from where I lay, vision hazy.

 

The man’s hand moved suddenly, whipping out what I thought to be a gun. I was right, as there was a loud but oddly muffled  **_bang! bang! bang!_ ** unlike anything I’d ever heard before, and then the air reeked of metallic blood, and Sniffles, Rat, and Bulldog crumpled to the ground.

 

If I weren’t so tired, if I weren’t so out of it, I would have been horrified. Terrified, too, running in the opposite direction. But even if I had the energy, that would have ended with the rope choking me, and so I remained where I lay, closing my eyes again. The man would do what he did--find me and leave me be, find me and let me go. Maybe even not find me and leave me to rot. And that last thought was horrifying, so I tried a bark, but only managed another wheezing squeak.

 

As though he hadn’t just murdered three men, the man turned and mounted back up, beginning to trot towards the main road. A low spark of fear flared in my chest, and I knew he wouldn’t see me, would pass me by.

 

Whether it was pure luck, divine intervention, or he heard my wheezing whine, I will never know. But he turned in his saddle, looking back towards that pathetic little shack that the three men had called home, eyes skimming right over me the first time. But as he began to straighten up in his saddle, his eyes went right over me again--and then came back to me. He turned his horse and dismounted, and I will never be able to say how  _ relieved _ I felt as he approached me.

 

“Hey, girl,” he murmured, and why did that raspy voice sound so familiar? “You ain’t lookin’ too good.” Slowly, he lowered himself, and as he came within feet of me I could begin to make out actual details, not just his blurry outline.

 

Deep scars, lining the right side of his face. Black stubble. Shoulder-length, messy black hair. Dark blue eyes, furrowed in concern.

 

I couldn’t help but to rasp a gasp, leaving me to heave several wheezing coughs.

 

John  _ fucking _ Marston was crouching in front of me.


	4. Prologue, Part 4

John had been  _ trying _ to go straight. Really, he had. But when folks were squatting on the farm his Abigail wanted so desperately, and they pulled guns on him, well, what was he supposed to do? Let himself get filled with holes so Abigail could say he had died a law-abiding man?

 

Looking at the corpses of the three men, John Marston groaned, running his fingers through his hair. For once, he was glad Abigail had left, so she didn’t see this. She would have  _ killed _ him. But this would be the  _ last _ time, he was determined that it would be so.

 

He needed to haul the corpses away, but he needed to get to the bank, too. Before they could change their minds about loaning the money--and he wouldn’t blame them. A man whose only experience at farming is as a farm-hand, only working as such for a few months, buying a run-down piece of land without so much as even a chicken coop. With hardly a cent to his name to pay back the loan. 

 

The corpses could wait, he decided, and swung up into Rachel’s saddle. Patting her shoulder, he praised her for not running from the sound of gunfire, before turning to guide her to the main road. Kicking her into a trot, he intended on hurrying back to Blackwater as fast as he could.

 

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, feeling a pair of eyes on him. His hand dropped to his gun, and he turned back to face the shack. Was there a fourth man? But, no, he had seen the whole inside of the ‘house’ from where he stood, and there had been no fourth man. He shook his head, remaining wary--his instincts had saved his life more times than he could count--before turning back around. His gun remained at the ready, slung over his saddle.

 

It was pure luck that he saw the dog.

 

Its brown-black fur blended in with the dry grass, and it was so still he almost overlooked it as an odd-looking bush. But he turned Rachel to face it, and he slung himself out of her saddle, plumes of dust coming up around his boots.

 

At first, he thought it was dead. It laid so motionless, its tongue lolling out of its mouth, and he’d never seen a living animal be so still. But then a pair of emeralds blinked open, peering from brown fur, and he felt a chill run down his spine. He’d never seen an animal with such intelligent eyes before; they were all but human.

 

Carefully, not wanting to be bitten, he lowered himself to the ground, pitching his voice low as he said, “Hey, girl,” the dog blinking at him blearily. He hoped it was a girl, but he could check later. “You ain’t lookin’ too good.” and she wasn’t; she looked half-dead of the heat and starvation, and even through her fairly-thick fur he could make out the lines of her ribs.

 

At that point, he was within arms reach of her. He remained tense, ready to jolt back if she lunged for him. John had no plans to be mauled today, thank you. But she only made a funny sound, beginning to cough and wheeze, and so he waited for her to be done before stretching forward, pressing his palm to the top of her head. He couldn’t help but to frown--even through his gloves, her fur was hot to the touch.

 

John scowled; he needed to get back to the bank, but his conscience wouldn’t allow him to just leave this dog to die like… well, a dog. So, with a sigh, he reached forward, attempting to undo the noose-like tie around her neck, making sure to telegraph his movements so as to minimize the chances of being bit. But he quickly determined it a lost cause, and pulled out his knife, cutting the rope just passed the knot--he could untie it later. Carefully, he slowly wrapped his arms around her before standing, the dog light in his arms, far lighter than even the lightest doe he had ever carried. 

 

Clicking his tongue, Rachel followed behind him as he carried the dog back to the shack. He had to stoop to go through the doorway, and the wood floor creaked alarmingly beneath his boots. Would it collapse? But three men had been living in it for who knows how long, so hopefully it would remain standing until he could reinforce it.

 

God, Abigail couldn’t have known what this place looked like, ‘else she would never have wanted it.

 

It was markedly cooler inside the shack, and the dog seemed to agree, groaning from where it was slumped in his arms. Its plume-like tail tapped weakly against his side, and he chuckled, clearing a spot on the ground with his foot, kicking away beer bottles and tins of cocaine gum. The spot looked relatively splinter-free, and so he lowered the dog to the ground as gently as he could, but she still groaned. “Sorry, lady,” he murmured, before crouching beside her, running his fingers gently along her ribs. They jutted out too much for him to be comfortable with, but he couldn’t find any that were broken.

 

She licked her lips, and he hummed, “You must be thirsty, huh lady?” and stood, wiping the filth and dirt off the knees of his pants. He had a canteen full of water attached to his saddle, and it didn’t take him long to retrieve it, the short walk leaving him sweating again.  _ ‘Poor beast,’ _ he couldn’t help but to pity her, having to lay out in this heat for who knows how long. John wiped the sweat off his forehead as he stepped back into the shack, the shade more than welcome. 

 

A quick glance around turned up a grimy looking bowl, and he wiped it out with his shirt before filling it with water from his canteen. Offering it to the dog, she gave a low groan, attempting to raise her head, but it thumped back to the ground. John set the bowl on the ground, and scooped her head up, setting her muzzle in it, making sure her nose was above the water. A pink tongue lazily lolled out into the water, and the dog swallowed. It was fairly warm water, but green eyes opened wide, and she began to drink rapidly, gulping it down as fast as she could.

 

“‘Atta girl,” John crouched down, stretching his hand out to her. She eyed him warily, but continued to drink, allowing him to stroke the top of her head. “I have ta go now, but you’re welcome to stay here.” He topped up the bowl of water before straightening up, having a sip of what remained in the canteen, wrinkling his nose at the metallic taste of the warm water. In town, he’d need to refill his canteen with fresh, cool water. 

 

John mounted up, and rode towards Blackwater, galloping in an attempt to make up for the time he had lost.


	5. Chapter 1, Beecher's Hope

John  _ goddamned _ Marston.

 

Well, why the hell not?

 

I’d woken up as a dog, in the desert. So why wouldn’t I be met by a video game character? That was probably the  _ least _ weird thing to happen so far, actually.

 

...no wonder the men that had found me seemed so familiar! And the shed! This was Beecher’s Hope! Did that mean that I was at the beginning of the epilogue? When John borrowed the money from the bank to buy the steading?

 

Seemed like it.

 

I wheezed as he scooped me up, carrying me back towards the shack. I was so tired, and so hot, and so thirsty. Surely I could just take a little nap?

  
  


The next time I woke up, he was setting me down on the ground. It was way cooler in there than it was outside, and so I closed my eyes again, basking in it. That’s not to say that it was cold--in fact, it could have probably still been considered ‘hot’ but, seeing how much cooler it was from outside, it might as well have been Alaska for how cool it felt. I couldn't help but to groan—the wood was rough beneath me, splinters digging into the soft flesh of my stomach. 

 

He muttered something, but I didn't catch it, too busy trying to find a comfortable position to lay in. His fingers were suddenly on my side, the dark haired man having knelt by me while I was distracted, a frown on his face. I couldn’t help but to flinch, but his fingers were gentle, ghosting along my ribs. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but a kind touch was more than welcome after days of being alone, and so I did nothing more than lay there.

 

Now that I had nothing else to focus on, the sun no longer baking my fur, I became incredibly aware of my thirst. My tongue might as well have been jointed wood, the insides of my mouth little more than leather. Fruitlessly, I licked my lips, seeking some sort of moisture that wasn’t there. My ears perked as John asked, “You must be thirsty, huh lady?” and I peered up at him hopefully—surely, he must have some water on him? Or something drinkable? I’d have taken Guarma Rum at that point. I watched as he walked out of the cabin, returning quickly. He clattered around the shack, finally turning up a grimy bowl, and my tail thumped in anticipation as he began to pour water into it. The water was tinted yellow and, if I had been offered it before all of this, I would have turned my nose up at it. But at that moment, it was the most delicious looking water I had ever seen.

 

It smelled musty, but I attempted to lift my head to drink—only to have it drop back to the ground. I felt incredibly weak, as though all the strength had left my body the moment I had been carried into the shack. Oh, I was so tired; I had never felt so tired before. Vaguely, I could see John furrow his brows, before his hands were on my head, and my mouth was in the water. I lolled my tongue out, feeling it soak my tongue, and swallowed. It wasn’t much, and it was warm, and tasted like dirt, but it hit my throat like nectar, and I found myself gulping it down desperately. 

 

John said something, I couldn’t make out what it was, I was too engrossed in the water, and suddenly his hand was reaching towards me. I looked up towards him, waiting to see what he would do, but he just stroked my head and so I kept drinking, finding the haze leaving my mind, the fog leaving my eyesight, the more I drank. How dehydrated had I been?

 

I stopped drinking when he stopped stroking my head, looking up to see him drinking from his canteen. Without looking back at me, he left the cabin, and after a moment I could hear horse-hooves thudding away, back towards Blackwater if my guess was right. Back to the bank, to secure his deed. There was a moment of worry, of fear, as he left—but I knew he would be back, with Uncle, and that those men were dead. And so I lapped up the last few drops of water, curled into a ball, and fell asleep, sleeping well for the first time since all of this started.


	6. Chapter 2, Uncle

For once, it wasn’t raised voices that woke me, but approaching hoofbeats, and then soft voices. I groaned, clenching my eyes shut, before opening them again as I yawned, tongue unfurling from my mouth. It’s hot, but not nearly as hot as it’s been the last few times I’ve woken up, and so I allow myself to enjoy it, waking slowly. My mouth was becoming dry again, so I licked my lips, smacking them to get rid of the foul taste of mourning breath—oh, how I miss toothpaste!

 

The voices are continuing outside, and both sound familiar, so there was little hurry in my movements as I stood, taking the time to stretch. Arching my back in the way that had begun to become quite natural over the last few days, my back popped loudly, and a stretch in the opposite direction worked the tightness out of my hips with a pair of cracks. I braced my paws, and shook myself, working out the last of the kinks in my joints. Oh, that felt so good!

 

An old man’s voice asked “What were you  _ thinkin’ _ ?” and I looked up to see Uncle standing in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder, clearly having not seen me. Well, if there was any doubt about it, I  _ was _ in the epilogue, and we  _ were _ following the game’s plotline. So John had gone back to the bank, signed up for the loan with his real name like a damn fool, and then run into Uncle. And soon we’d find Charles, and then Abigail and Jack would come back, and everything would go wrong afterwards.

 

_ This is fine. _

 

“I don’t know… she said she wanted it!” and I couldn’t help but to snort. Even when I was playing the game, I’d found that pretty dumb. She clearly hadn’t seen a picture, had admitted herself that she’d only read about it in the newspaper. Surely he could have gone and found another ranch to buy, one that  _ wasn’t _ a falling apart shack, next to cougar spawn points, a black bear spawn, and a forest full of Skinners? It would be more expensive, sure, but in the long run it would cost less, and what was cost to safety? Even just  _ playing  _ as John the thought of Jack being so close to those goddamned cougars gave me anxiety, even though I knew he wasn’t in any danger.

 

“She ever seen it?” my point exactly! “What are we gonna farm here? Rocks?” I snickered, and trotted forward to stick my head out the open doorway, squinting in the bright sunlight as I made out Uncle’s rather broad form, stooping down to pick up a stone

 

“We?”

 

“You don’t have a hope here, without a wise hand at the tiller.” I tilted my hand, looking between the two. What  _ was _ a tiller, anyways? I’d never known, and never gotten around to looking it up. But either way, Uncle was useless at it, whatever it was, and I’d never seen him be truly useful in the game except at the very end of the original game. Around the ranch he did nothing of true use, from what I could recall, and only caused trouble in town. But I liked him because, in the end, he cared for the Marstons, willing to give up his life for them if he had to.

 

And they continued to argue, John attempted to make Uncle leave, Uncle refusing to. It was honestly funny, watching the drunkard of an old man simply say ‘no’ to being kicked out, despite being told to leave by the much younger, more dangerous gunslinger. My head turned to follow them, jaw half-open in a doggy grin, huffing a laugh. Living with them, I supposed, wouldn’t be so bad.

 

“So, you think I’m an idiot?” John grunted, scowling at the old man.

 

And Uncle, again, moved to walk into the shack; I ducked out of his way, flinching and half expecting a blow. He simply raised an eyebrow at me, and laughed, “No… I know you’re an idiot!” moving to sprawl out on the rug that I’d used as a bed, reaching out and grabbing one of the half-empty bottles of whiskey the dead men had left laying around. My nose wrinkled, trying not to think about what might be floating around in it, cigarette butts and dead flies and ants and other bugs, and who knew what else besides.

 

Gagging as I saw _something_ go floating down the neck of the bottle and into Uncle’s mouth, I ran through the doorway, stopping as I looked for John. He was scowling, face dark as he grabbed Rachel and Nell IV’s reins, leading the two to the tree that I had been tied to, tying their reins to one of the low-lying branches so that they could graze and move about. Just the sight of the tree made the fur on the back of my neck stand on end (and it was a decidedly _strange_ feeling, well, it had been the first few times but I’d gotten used to it after the fourth or so time Bulldog had approached), so I waited for him to begin to walk back to the shack before trotting up to him with a cheerful _‘whuff!’_

 

His eyebrows raised, and he looked at me in surprise, “So you stayed, huh girl?” John asked, and I slowed to a stop in front of him, wagging my tail to try and show that I was friendly. I’d managed to survive a few days of starvation, dehydration, and near heatstroke, and didn’t care to be shot dead the next day by my savior, thank you very much. He reached out his hand, slowly, and I couldn’t help but to sigh as he began to scratch under my chin. Oh,  _ oh! _ , that felt good. My tail wagged violently and, as he dug his fingers in deeper, my butt moved with it. That,  _ that, _ was pure pleasure.

 

But, of course, all good things have to come to an end. And it was my own traitor of a stomach that put an end to this one, rumbling so loudly that even he could hear it. He snorted, withdrawing his hand slowly (and I did  _ not _ lean forward, trying to follow the touch, no sir), asking “Ya hungry, girl? Bet they didn’t feed ya much, did they?” And, okay, yeah I was. I hadn’t eaten since waking up here, and now that my body wasn’t focused on getting water and getting somewhere cool, my empty stomach was all I could think about.

 

John was digging through his satchel, then, and I watched curiously. He could pull  _ anything _ out of there, I knew, at least if this world was following the game logic. Was it? Could he magically fit five squirrel carcasses in the satchel? Okay, yeah, now I was curious.

 

And then, joy of joys!, he pulled out a handful of dried meat. My eyes locked on it, and I began to drool, tongue lolling out and saliva dripping to the ground. He chuckled, unwrapping the rags that held them together, and tossed it to the ground at my paws, throwing up a cloud of dust.  _ Really? _ I glared up at him, but couldn’t blame him—after all, feeding a stray dog could be dangerous; you never knew if they were food aggressive, and in a time without rabies shots being bitten by a stray could be fatal. So, with a sigh, I took the meat in my mouth and began to chew as best I could—it was surprisingly hard, seeing as most of my teeth were different from what I was used to, and I hadn’t had time to practice with them. The meat was tough, dry, tasteless and sandy but, at that moment, it was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted.

 

“If you’re gonna stay,” John said suddenly, and I looked up at him even as I gulped down the last few bites of the mystery meat (maybe venison? I’d never had it before, so I couldn’t say), “then I suppose you’re gonna need a name.”

 

Oh, well, I guessed he was right. After all, I couldn’t exactly tell him mine. Hopefully, he’d pick a good one for me, although considering that he’d named his horse ‘Rachel’ I didn’t have very high hopes. “Brownie?” I stared at the crumbs of jerky on the ground, absolutely refusing to answer. “No? Pepper?” Yeah, that was cute, and a good fall back. But still no. “Floppy?” At that, I couldn’t help but to glare. Really? I have  _ one _ floppy ear and you mock it? “Green?” Okay, yeah, that was somehow worse. He sighed, “Jesus, I’ve never met such a picky animal. Abigail named Jack, and Old Bob was old as hell and a Bob through and through.”  I stared up at him, blinking slowly. Still, not impressed John. Old Bob had had a mostly human name, Rachel had a human name,  _ try _ a human name on me other than Pepper!

 

He looked deep in thought, then, as though trying to remember something. When he spoke, it was under his breath, “What was the name of that woman in Jack’s book?” and I tilted my head in aroused curiosity. Which book? I’d only ever seen him reading about King Arthur in the game, but there were surely dozens of books he had read. “Gin… Guinev-Guinevere?” The rather extravagant name was rough on his tongue, stuttered and awkward. My ears perked up, and I stared at him. Guinevere? From The Knights of the Round Table? I could live with that, quite happily, in fact. He looked at me, clearly surprised, before shaking his head. “Of course that’s the one you like,” he snorted, “who comes up with these names anyways?” Oh, he  _ better _ use that name, I liked Pepper well enough but everything else was horrifically dumb. “Alright, Guin… shit, you’re gonna need a nickname, that’s a hell of a mouthful. Ginny, I’ll call ya Ginny.”

 

Ginny, I could live with that.


	7. Chapter 3: Guinevere

As it turns out?

 

Uncle  _ reeked _ .

 

Like… he smelled like he shit his pants, ate a whole barrel of onions, and then stepped on a skunk’s tail. And the booze—can’t forget how much he _stunk_ of booze.

 

He had my eyes watering, and my stomach heaving. Unfortunately, it was because of him that I discovered that my nose, too, was as strong as a dog’s. Which, honestly, I should have expected, but when you’re half dead it’s not really something you think about, is it? I could hear as well as any dog, so why wouldn’t I be able to smell things like one too?

 

Thankfully, it seemed, I had kept my human eyesight. Normally, that would’ve been bad, seeing as I had needed glasses during Before just to see my hand in front of my face, but it seemed that my eyesight was as good as it was with my glasses on. Had I been transported… or whatever the term would be, I’d called it transport, while I was wearing my glasses? I didn’t know, still couldn’t remember how in hell I’d ended up here. Last I remembered, I was eating  _ really  _ bad chinese food, and then I’d woken up in the Great Plains.

 

It took days for me to get used to Uncle’s reek; I spent a lot of time close to him, unfortunately, seeing as the shack provided the best shade on the ranch. We’d found ourselves sitting in the shade together, watching idly as John hauled rocks around in that wheelbarrow of his, the both of us laughing at his creative cussing whenever a rock fell on his foot—which was often. I would have helped him, really, I would have, but he hadn’t asked me to, hadn’t seemed to even consider it, and that besides I was still weak and tired, building up my strength on scraps from John’s meals, and whatever Uncle tossed my way through the day (I refused the beer he tried to pour into my bowl, though, I’m dumb, not stupid). Uncle had been quick to declare me his ‘new favorite drinking buddy’, giving me a nice thump on the back that had left me wheezing, seeming to think that I was like him, a lazy lay-about who did nothing but eat and drink all day.

  
  


 

I have to admit, night quickly became my favorite time of day. The temperature dropped dramatically, and it felt as though I came to life. The sluggishness brought on by the heat faded away, leaving me with all the energy in the world, it felt like. John had been quick to discover it, and would amuse himself, sitting by the campfire and throwing me chunks of meat and watching me try to catch them.

 

As it turned out? I  _ sucked _ , but it was still kind of fun. It helped me get used to this awkward body, to figure out its abilities and  limits. I learned how to jump, how to jump incredibly high, so high I could turn a flip, and, oh yeah!, how to turn a flip while in mid-air. That wasn’t to say I could  _ land _ the flip, ending up sprawled on my side more often than not, but who can say they could turn a flip as a  _ dog _ _ ‽ _

 

And Uncle was particularly proud of himself for ‘teaching’ me to fetch him a beer. Naturally I could understand him, knew  _ exactly _ what he wanted, but it was hysterical watching him try and figure out what order of words would magically get me to understand what he wanted. 

 

It was even funnier when John had lazily called out ‘pass me a beer’ to Uncle, and I had stood up and trotted over, grabbing one in my teeth and bringing it to him. John had laughed hysterically, while Uncle had looked baffled, and kind of offended. 

 

Before I wouldn’t have bothered, but it helped me, too. Picking up only one beer out of a bunch of them? Surprisingly difficult, especially without fingers. And those things are  _ fragile _ , so being able to pick them up and carry them without puncturing or shattering the glass was a hell of a task, and helped me to learn how to use only so much pressure—it was easy to forget how strong a dog’s jaws were until you  _ were _ one.

  
  


 

_ 'They can smell fear just by lookin' atcha.' _

 

_ ' Don't panic, they can smell fear.' _

 

How many times have you heard that? Maybe not those exact words, but most people are told  _ 'they can smell fear'  _ or  _ 'they can sense fear'  _ at some point in their lives. Maybe when getting on a horse, or when working with dogs, working with children or even just on TV.

 

Well, which one is it? Can 'they', whatever the 'they' you're talking about is,  _ smell _ fear? Or can they  _ sense _ it?

 

I'd always thought it was just a saying, honestly. If you were tense, the animal would be tense. But they wouldn't get that you were  _ afraid _ , why would they? It just never made any sense to me. 

  
  


Just under a week after I met John, I was woken up from a deep sleep by what, at first, seemed to be nothing. Lifting my head from my paws, I'd looked around, but there was nothing out of place—Uncle snorted loudly from where he slumped over near the fire, a bottle of whiskey still clutched in his fist; John was stretched out on top of his bed roll, hat pulled down low over his head.

 

But something was  _ wrong _ , the need to  _ move _ itching at my bones, I needed to know what it was,what was happening. I was on my paws in moments, pacing anxiously, whining low as I looked further, taking a moment to look at the fire: was Uncle too close to it? No, he was close but even if he toppled forward there'd still be enough space. And the fire hadn't escaped its rock circle, hadn't set alight any of the dry grass. 

 

Beginning to pace a loop, walking around the two, I turned my attention outwards. Was there something watching us? Had I felt someone's gaze on my back? A snake? A bear, or even a puma? I stilled, for a moment, sweeping my gaze low, but John had been working hard and picking up any twigs and a snake would have stood out, would have gone fleeing at my approach, and so my gaze went back upwards. Bears, too, would flee; from what I could remember only black bears came this close to Beecher's Hope, the grizzlies keeping to the higher parts of Tall Trees. 

 

The puma, though… 

 

A sweep of my gaze, and a sweep again. I turned a circle in place, perking my ears, trying to catch  _ something _ , the glint of firelight on eyes in the dark. For a moment, there was nothing, and I had begun to resume my slow circle around the pair, legs stiff and fur standing on end, a growl beginning to rumble in my chest as the anxiety only worsened.

 

But then my loop drew me near to John, and he caught my attention. I couldn't say why, then, and I still can't say now. Maybe it was a tenseness in his figure, or the way he was laying, maybe a sound so soft I had only barely heard it, or a barely perceptible movement. I wasn't sure then, and I'm still not sure now. But still I approached him, fighting the urge to bare my teeth as the anxiety coiled tighter and tighter in my chest the closer I got to him until, finally, I stood at his side.

 

Up close, I could see him. His face was no longer cast into shadow, and the grimace on his face was clear. As I watched, his brow furrowed, and his teeth bared in a grimace, before he shivered. The coil in my chest clenched and without meaning to I balked, dancing a few steps away. He stilled, fingers twitching, and the coils loosened some. I forced myself forward, pressing my nose against his neck in an attempt at waking him up without waking Uncle as well. 

 

Almost immediately, I recoiled. He smelled of sweat, of body odor far worse than usual. It  _ reeked _ , wholly unlike anything I'd smelled on Uncle before—on anyone. Shaking my head, the scent clung to my nose, metallic and lingering, unsettling in a way I couldn't put into words. I could only describe it as pure  _ fear _ and, as the scent continued to stick to my nose, I felt my own anxiety climb, jolting my head this way and that, scratching at my nose with my forepaw, finally jammed it into the dirt and grinding it this way and that. Coming up, I sneezed over and over to dislodge the dirt from my nostrils, but it was worth it because the damned scent was finally  _ gone _ .

 

Hesitantly, afraid of getting his sweat anywhere on me, I approached him again. He was beginning to shift, my own anxiety spiking but, now knowing what it was, I shoved it away and butted my head into his side, trying to find his hand in the dark. It was, thankfully, gloved, so I had no qualms about shoving my head into his palm repeatedly, ramming his hand into his leg until, finally, it twitched, cupping my head before beginning to stroke my fur.

 

He groaned, raising his head and looking around, wide-eyed, before rubbing them with his free hand.  _ "Jesus,"  _ he hissed, shaking his head and reaching for a bottle of beer laying not far from him, throwing his head back and gulping down what remained.

 

I huffed and, despite knowing he couldn't understand me, couldn't help myself.  _ "No, just me." _ John tossed the bottle away, slumping back onto his bed roll, and I followed him, curling up beside him.

 

He shoved at me, for a moment, scowling as he growled "No! Bad dog! No dogs on the bed." the ungrateful bastard, and I threw him a look. I wasn't sure  _ what _ look it was, making expressions as a dog is surprisingly hard, but he gave in quickly enough to either my pitiful stare, my exasperated stare, or my puppy-dog eyes, allowing me to flop my head across his chest.

 

His hand came up to scratch between my ears, the other arm folding under his head as he stared up at the stars.

 

I had no problem falling back asleep, the fear-scent almost gone, enjoying the first bit of genuine affection, and kind human touch, since the start of all this.


End file.
